Always 6 o'clock
by lin090
Summary: Cas wakes for the first time in heaven to a ticking clock that never moves Close-AU


The clock's been ticking 6 o'clock for what must be hours now.

Perhaps that is what hell is. An eternal 6 o'clock. The light never changing. The room remaining just as it was perhaps centuries ago.

He stands up and reaches, just able to touch the lower stub of the minute hand. Gently he pushes and watches the clock for the first time pass 6 o'clock.

For the first time in his existence the door to the room opens. A man dressed in a white shirt enters.

"Name?" he asks without looking over.

"Um Cas." It's the first time he's used his voice box and the words are strange in his throat. He lifts a hand up and feels the bob of his adam's apple, pushes slightly, feels the pressure it causes in the back of his throat. Next time will be easier.

"Um Cas or just Cas?" the white shirt asks.

"Just Cas." He was right, it's easier, the words feeling freer.

"Just Cas or just Cas."

He stares at the white shirt, tilting his head to the side as if that will make the confusing man resolve into something that makes sense.

"Cas," he says drawing the word out long and slow.

"Very well." Suddenly there are papers in his lap as the man twists and starts to shove copies of text into his unresisting hands.

"What is this?" Cas asks trying not to drop what he's being handed.

The white shirted man blinks as if he's never been asked such a question before.

"You've been here for 500 years now. In truth we thought you'd never wake up."

"Wake up how?"

It's enough for the man to stop completely while tidying his remaining papers away. He takes a long lingering look at Cas, taking in every detail before turning heel and walking out the door.

Cas lifts himself off the seat. His muscles twitch slightly at the movement. Just as he'd never talked before he'd also never moved before he moved the hand on the clock. He takes a moment to get used to his body, the lithe muscles that cover the heavy bones. It's strange, but his head seems to be the heaviest part of his body aside from his wings. They trail on the floor as he moves putting all his energy into not letting his head drop.

After a few moments it's easier, though his wings are still useless behind him. He tries the door to find it locked before turning on the rest of the room.

To one side is a sofa, the one he'd been sitting on. To the other is the clock hanging over an empty desk. The walls are white, the one window behind the sofa frosted so he can't see out.

This is what hell must be like.

The clock's ticking is too loud. It gets louder with each beat. Cas sits back down, tries to be calm. He's been calm for centuries now. He can remember the time he was sleeping. It hasn't left much of a mark on him. He- as all his kind - are born with depths of knowledge.

He knows all the languages used in the world below and a few dead ones. He even knows a few which are purely fictional.

He knows how electricity works. How cars run.

But he is also a new born. He has never been in this world before. He knows how people act. The why isn't a question that concerns his kind. Yet he finds himself wondering.

Cas sits still. He lets the stillness wash over him, tries to elongate the time, tries to go back to the state he was in before.' Sleep' the white shirted man had called it. It is different from the sleep of the world below. More like a trance, a meditation.

He had not wanted to leave it.

But the clock ticked six.

He hadn't managed to shut out the noise of the clock by the time the door opened again. At least it offered a change from the constant ticking.

It was not the man from before. Instead another walks in. He's tall, bronze skinned, but it's his eyes that Cas notices. White. Pure white. He knows from the memories he was born with that this isn't usual. This man is one of the archangels.

"Raphael," he says bowing his head as is customary. It is not unknown for the archangels to burn the eyes from the skulls of those that cross them.

"Castiel," Raphael answers. He uses his full name, one that Cas had never even thought to tell. He thinks of himself only as Cas. "It is nice to finally meet you."

Raphael's smile is sarcastic.

"You have slept longer than any other viable spawn. I would have destroyed you centuries ago as a lost cause if it were not for our losses in the war."

The war. Cas flinches at the term so calmly applied. Half of all his kind were destroyed in that war. Of those that remain half had been banished. They are still building their ranks after the decimation.

Raphael spoke as if the war was over, but Cas could see the truth behind the superficial peace. Lives were still being lost on the battlefield.

The generals had got their man and had such retreated to celebrate in luxury. The poor humans on the streets were still being picked off. It was short sighted, each soul lost another in the enemies hand.

Raphael's waiting. Cas guesses he wanted an answer. To what though he does not know.

"The war is terrible," he manages.

"It was," Raphael replies absentmindedly refusing to believe the war still continued. "But it is over now and we are regrouping without the creator. Still we need bodies on earth. Every soldier has a use."

It should have been obvious. Cas blinks at his stupidity. Of course it had all been heading in this direction. He was to be one of the few stationed on earth. The broken. The forgotten.

"Yes of course," he answers. He doesn't want to annoy Raphael. There are worse punishments for being broken than being sent to earth.


End file.
